He cracks the eggs one-handed into a bowl, whisking with a fork while he heats a pan. He adds butter and thyme while he waits for me to finish slicing the peppers.
The smell lures Haven away from whatever reflective surface she was admiring herself in. She hovers in the doorway, sighing happily as she watches us work.
“Make yourself useful and set the table,” Rooke says without turning around.
“What are we having?”
“Omelets,” Rooke says. “Don’t get excited.”
But Haven’s already excited, sliding past me to peer over Rooke’s shoulder. He tolerates it for about three seconds before nudging her away with his elbow.
“Christ, out! Both of you.”
“He’s like a murder-y Gordon Ramsay,” Haven whispers loudly as I steer her into the living room.
“I heard that!”
“You were meant to!”
We set the table, Haven folding the paper towels into triangles.
When Rooke brings out a tray with our omelets and fresh toast, Haven lets out a borderline pornographic moan.
My groan of appreciation is just as erotic. “How’d you learn to cook this well?”
“Worked at a bakery for a few years.” He eats with the same unhurried movements he does everything. “Then part-time as a sous chef when I was in college.”
“It’s so fucking good,” Haven says. “Think you’ll ever be able to cook this well, boy?”
The teasing look she throws me under those dark, long lashes of hers has me getting a semi at the fucking breakfast table.
“Better than you, slut.”
Her mouth drops open. “Asshole!”
I point my fork at her. “Just need to apply yourself. Spend less time sucking our dicks, and more time in the kitchen.”
She scoffs. “No one wants that.”
Haven tried baking us a cake once. Either she got the sugar and salt mixed up, or she was trying to poison us. Thankfully, we only took one bite each, so her evil plan failed.
“Actually, yeah. Please stay out of the kitchen.”
“Agreed,” Rooke mutters, taking a big sip of coffee like he’s trying to wash that taste out of his mouth.
I laugh when she kicks me under the table, and that makes her laugh.
Rooke sips his coffee, frowning at us like he’s confused by our happiness. It’s a language he’s still learning to speak…and we’re his tutors.
When his foot accidentally nudges mine under the coffee table, I slide my toes up his ankle under his pants and grin at him until he smiles back.
I never thought living with a serial killer could be like this.
Maybe I’m stereotyping, but I was expecting violence and mind games, not mind-blowing sex and the best omelets I’ve ever had in my entire fucking life.
He feeds us without being asked, because he always knows when we’re hungry. He teaches us things we’ve never been taught, with unlimited patience—except for that fucking coffee machine.
And he’s always there to comfort us, sometimes before we even know we need him.
